United We Stand

The paparazzi scream out a somber story,

Filling our senses with images gory

Of a wounded child walking through a hundred shrouds,

Searching for his mother amidst those smoky clouds.

With a silent prayer, I try to sleep every night,

But the littlest of noises wake me up with a fright,

Each step that we tread on is now a landmine of fear,

And the demons from the other world look at us and jeer.

But they can't break our strength, we stand brave and tall,

And proudly we claim: united we stand, divided we fall.

A gallant cop kills and dies for a cause,

But we bicker listlessly about ethics and sketchy laws,

A life too precious is laid down in vain,

As his commitment to his brethren is flushed down the drain.

We limp back to life on a busy city street

Where a meaningless trifle turns up the heat.

Curses turn into blows, and blows into bloodshed,

Each man for himself, unity be dead.

Those demons laugh at us as we busy ourselves in the brawl,

And we still proudly claim: united we stand, divided we fall.

The Brook And The Maple Leaf

One little brook wends its way through the wild,
Letting out whimpers like an abandoned child,
It searches for a friend that is lost since long,
Cries out to the maple leaf an invoking song.

"Dear maple leaf, where have you been?
It’s been ages since the horizon together we’ve seen.
Come let us go see the sun set again,
Relive the moments we savoured back then."

"Dear old brook, I miss you as much,
But we can meet no more, our fate is such,
The moisture in you makes me lose my sheen,
So I’d rather stay snug in the wilderness green.

In my adversity you sailed me through,

I know you care for me, and I love you too.

But times are anew, and you are no longer sweet and pure,

The velvet grass where I lie is a better lure."

The brook falls still, stricken by grief,
In shock and dismay, turns to the maple leaf:
"Do you forget the day you were in want of direction,
And I had taken you along to your destination?

You now need me no more, then so it will be,
Stay rest assured, you’ll see no more of me,
I’ll flow till eternity and merge with the ocean,
One day you’ll wither, you’ll remember me then."

Avaricia

I chased her slithering silhouette under the crimson moon,
Her fragrance filled the forest air, and my heart began to croon.
I looked her in the face when I reached the riverside,
My heart skipped a beat, and I asked her to be my bride.

Innocence met radiance, and converged into her eyes,
Her head tilted downward coyly and refused to rise,
Softly she said, “Marry you I will,
But not before I tell you what’s for you beyond that hill.
On the top of that hill lives the world’s prettiest dame,
Her looks are a snare, Avaricia is her name,
If you ask for her hand, all you have is one chance Sir,
For a single question is all you can ask her!
Another question asked, and she will melt into the air,
So choose your question with wise thought and care.”

“I’ll ask for her hand,” I said in glee,
“No other question then will mean anything for me!”
I then ran for Avaricia, across the length of the forest,
Leaving behind an angel, in quest for the best.

I found her on the hill after an hour’s long find,
And the angel’s warning crept out of my mind,
“Are you Avaricia?” I asked her faintly,
To which she nodded and smiled briefly.
“Will you marry me?” Was my next question to her,
And in a flash of a second, her image began to blur.
When she was out of sight I knew what I had done,
I prayed in vain but I knew she wouldn’t return.

I ran back for the angel whom I had left in greed,
To make her my bride, once again I would plead,
But after another hour’s run when I did reach there,
All I saw was the silent river and her fragrance in the air.

Fifty-fifty in the mind

He walks in nimbly, with a marksheet he wants to hide
From the loving parents who say he is their pride.
Fifty-fifty in the kid’s mind: to admit failure, or simply lie
And drown deeper in his guilt as each night passes by?

A tiny morsel in her mouth, and two bellies to feed,
She faces a dilemma between love and greed,
Fifty-fifty in the cat’s mind: save it for her kitten, or have her fill
And let the young one sleep hungry in the December chill?

A plump young lady eyes a succulent chocolate slab
That impedes her will to fight her ugly flab.
Fifty-fifty in her mind: to resist, or to surrender
And shift her slimming deadline to another date on her calendar?

Hoping for his maiden win, he hits the shot of his last set,
And the ball stops for a split second as it hits the tip of the net.
Fifty-fifty in the player’s mind: Will today be his game,
Or will he yet again return, hanging his head in shame?

The penniless, abandoned old man holds a prescription slip,
There’s a car at the crossroad that might offer him a tip.
Fifty-fifty in his mind: stoop down and beg, or stand tall and firm,
No matter if his illness makes him scream and squirm?

With a prayer on his lips and a racing heartbeat,
He sees her approach him, and he gets cold feet.
Fifty-fifty in the lover’s mind: Will she hold his hand and smile,
Or will she walk far away, far, many a mile?

Autobiography of a Wall

I am a wall, dead and cold,
But hear me out, I've a story to be told,
Of the place I've seen for years two score.
Hear me out, before I fall to the floor.

The loving patriarch of a family of four,
Had built me with love and care galore,
I stood tall in the courtyard, through sunshine and rain,
For the family that bonded through laughter and pain.

I was the canvas for the toddlers' meaningless art,
And a love letter for the doting wife, so she could speak out her heart,
And I still bear the marks of the wet vermilion-coated palms
Of the elder son's wife who was welcomed home with open arms.

But soon I saw a sad turn of the tide,
When one day the old patriarch died,
A spate of misfortunes then found its way through,
And a feud between the siblings began to brew.

One said to the other, "To deal with you is tough,
I'm moving in next door!" And he walked out in a huff.
Thus, the boys who once used me for graffiti and child play,
Used me now to veil the hate, that was growing by the day.

The distraught, widowed mother often leans by my side,
And in my million crevices lets her tears and wails hide,
When I see what's around me - hatred and pall,
I oft thank my stars I'm made an expressionless wall.

I heard I'm going to be razed and remade,
So each brother gets his space and ends his eternal tirade,
I invoke them to rather destroy me as a whole,
If that can revive bonhomie in their lost soul.

My Life Is A Song

Walking out of my world which was turning dangerously bland,

I chanced upon a desert in a faraway land,

Where the velvet sand was kissed by the sun's amber rays so bright,

And for miles around, there was not a soul in sight.

Then, in a pleasant paradox to the arid heat,
Lay a large oasis at some hundred feet,
I strode a little closer, and couldn’t believe my eyes,
Sprawled across was a green paradise.

Surrounding a gentle brook that made music so fine,
Stood scores of trees, of fir and pine,
Around which little elves and fairies trotted along,
Humming “My smile is my sunshine, my life is a song”.

I went to them and asked if they were aware,
Of the loveliest place on earth that ever was there,
They motioned towards the mountain at the aft of the stream,

Said, the view from there was a surreal dream.

I scaled up to the peak where the earth met the sky,

Ecstatic, I prayed for wings so I could fly,

Sheets of white were spread all over,

And I wished to freeze, right there, forever!

A resounding thwack shook me up from my daze,

I turned to see the boss offer a petulant gaze,

He said, "Of daisies and damsels you dream all day,

But if you don't spruce up now, you'll jolly well have to pay!"

Ah, so for the money and the status, I'll reconcile,

I'll clear up my work that's gathered in a pile,

Won't fuss today that my life is a whole lot of crap,

For I saw the beauty of the world in a short little nap.

Sorbet On Ice

I woke in a cringe to a mangy little wail,
'Twas one of those guys trying a futile Sunday morning sale,
I peeped out of my window with bleary eyes
To find a little lad selling sorbet on ice.

Shorn of the smile that a child should wear,
He was frail as a leaf, ready to tear,
As he caught my eye, he pleaded in earnest
To buy his sorbet, so he could be blessed.

I curbed my wrath and shooed him away,
How I hate being bugged on so early a Sunday!
I walked to the park just round the neighbourhood,
Thought the morning's fresh gale would do me some good.

A trepid mind then began counting its woes,
Of finances and farces, of friends and foes,
And just then a sorry sight caught my gaze,
When a wiry old lady tripped and fell flat on her face.

I rushed to her and helped her to her feet,
Blood streamed through her nose, she looked forlorn and beat,
Her confounded look bespoke the saga of her life,
One of separation, sorrow, soliloquy and strife.

I asked her if I could be of some help to her,
She said, ‘Oh yes, you very much can, kind Sir,
I’m looking for my son who has deserted me since long,
Without telling me what I did so wrong.’
Of her limitless love with passion she spoke,
‘I need to see him,’ she said with a choke,
‘I’m bereft of love, and I have little time
To gain his love, and forgiveness for my crime.’

I slinked away, in shame and regret,
For being thankless for what each day I get,
For little trifles that seemingly affect my plight,
I forget that I at least have my loved ones in sight.

As I wound round the street, I saw the same little lad,
Cowering under a tree, hungry and sad.
I ambled upto him and asked for a sorbet on ice,
And my day was made, when I saw the glee in his eyes.

Monday Blues

There is an eerie sensation that grips me as I step into my cubicle on a Monday morning. My restive mind spurs a mélange of worries – be it facing the boss’s tirade for not having completed the previous week’s urgent deliverable, or be it planning how to duck the next deliverable likely to be handed to you (URGENT!!! Again!). I somehow escape the invectives in the morning call (why does it have to be 9 AM IST?) and scamper off for breakfast before an ominous sign pops up again. The nice, long walk to the cafeteria yields me a sumptuous idli sambhar (why are you giggling? I am serious when I say sumptuous, ain’t I?), and ah yes, also one cutting Bournvita. I try negotiating for a larger quantity, but I am rendered a disdainful look, and am made to understand that the price of milk has suddenly increased, albeit only on the premises of my office. Whatever!!
I walk back to my cubicle with my fingers crossed and a prayer in my heart. I unlock my computer and see what I fear most – half a dozen mails flagged URGENT! staring me in the face. I race with time to finish the deliverables by noon so that I can have a peaceful lunch, but time beats me fair and square. I walk down for some reprieve, hang out in the cafeteria with friends, and yes, I eat my lunch too (I’ll skip the description this time). We get into meaningless debate post lunch, the sole agenda of which is to dilly-dally that moment when we need to go back to our “work”stations. But we finally submit to the will of the boss. I walk back, this time not only with a heavy heart, but also a heavy belly. I “sleepwork” through the rest of my deliverables, seeking occasional respite from the ever lovable bulletin board. At 5 PM, I find ‘OMG, the deliverables are not complete yet!’, but pack my bag nonetheless, reconciling myself to the fact that this is an endless cycle and will repeat itself tomorrow, day after tomorrow, and the day after that, too.
As I prepare to leave, I pray for Adam Sandler’s ‘Click’ remote, that could take me fifteen years back in time, when I rather looked forward to going to school on a Monday morning, because I so loved everything about it. Or if that is too much of an ask, it could at least take me four days ahead in time, where I walk into office on an easy Friday in my Nike loafers and casual denim, feeling free, at last…

Champions turned Louts

For almost a decade, the Australians have stayed smug in a nebula of arrogance. Duly so. Despite valiant attempts and close scares given by many a team, they managed to retain their throne for pretty long, and their glory remained unscathed. And just when one might have begun to wonder how to show these vain dandies their place, someone just made our job easy. Guess who? They, themselves, of course.
With the sheer impudence displayed by the Australians in the Sydney test, they have, probably permanently, scarred their image in the cricketing world, and have deprived them of a lot of respect they could have otherwise earned for being arguably the best side in international cricket. And it is such a crying shame that the man bearing proudly this flag of ignominy is their own leader, Ricky Ponting. His brazen appeal, after he clearly floored a catch that deflected off Dhoni’s pad, shouts out loud the mentality of his team – that the spirit of a sportsman means nothing to victory addicts. Clarke’s adamancy at the crease after offering a sitter to the slips, Symond’s cheeky smile after getting a lifer from his umpire-turned-benefactor, and Ponting’s gesture after Ganguly’s dismissal – all bear testimony to the same truth. Little wonder, then, that Peter Roebuck called the team a pack of wild dogs yesterday who have brought “shame to their nation”.
But after all that has transpired, the only thing that really hurts is that it is being suggested that the tour now be called off. Should the agenda now not be to give a fitting reply to the cheats, and teach them a lesson in sportsmanship? It hardly matters now whether India wins or loses the series. What matters is putting up a fight that tells the Aussies what the spirit of Team India really is. With stalwarts like Tendulkar, Ganguly and Dravid on the team, who knows – India might just serve the Aussies their comeuppance.
I was in Melbourne during the India-Australia tour in India last October. It pinched to see the way the Australian media had ridiculed our players, naming individual players like Sreesanth and commenting that they were resorting to plain “monkey antics” on the field. Was that not racism? We should be asking Symonds how was that comment different from what he says Harbhajan called him. For their sake, the Aussies should stop behaving like cry-babies; they’d rather bask in the glory of their championship while it lasts.